


Progress

by yoolee



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Mixing route mythologies, Poking around in Saeran’s head, Spoilers, Which is a complicated place to be for understandable reasons, he has MIXED BAG OF EMOTIONS, it might read like pining but it’s not romantic I promise?, some semi-melancholy dealing with demons stuff some fluff stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 19:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12514800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoolee/pseuds/yoolee
Summary: As Saeran takes his time to heal, he has good days, bad days, and weird days. But he certainly can't say he has BORING days. Short, sort of not-really-connected drabbles, just little moments in his life as he adjusts to a new normal. Post 707 route, with some aspects of other routes.





	1. Marshmallow

**Author's Note:**

> *nervously sweats*  
> am I doing this right is this okay I DON'T KNOW I just know that omg I want this poor sweet boy to get help and love and peace after the hell he's been through.

It’s Jumin’s idea to roast marshmallows. He apparently read about it, somewhere, (some _why_ , the boy in question doesn’t bother to linger on – curiosity isn’t a part of him any longer, for the most part. Or if it is, it’s one of those squishy parts that gets hurt, so he pretends it isn’t there, but regardless, they’re all gathered around, roasting them), and now there are bags of them. Mini, jumbo, shaped like bunnies and cats, dusted in sugar, pink, yellow, green, square, and round. Jaehee— _Assistant Kang—_ looking perennially tired, has a thinly bound report in her hands and dismay in her lips.

Saeran sticks with the traditional choice, but he doesn’t eat it. There’s still a whisper of  _marshmallow boy_  that he remembers.

(It’s weird, to remember. Some moments are crystalline, precise, as vivid as the present moment in a way that is disorienting and indistinguishable. Other moments are hazy, fogged, choked with a frenetic adrenaline that make them a blur, but then they’ll swim into focus when he’s not expecting it – when his hand touches a door handle, or a shadow passes over the window, or when he takes a sip of water and it isn’t  _sharp_  like he expects)

He takes two fingers, and presses down. The marshmallow squishes. He loosens his fingers, and slowly, it puffs back up. It’ll do that a few times, he knows. But eventually, if he squeezes hard enough, it will distort. It won’t be strong enough to take its original shape again. Not that it’s much of a shape.

“Aren’t you gonna roast it? Here—!” Yoosung’s face, wide-eyed and bright, interrupts his field of vision, plucking the treat from Saeran’s fingers and skewering it (Saeran, barely, suppresses a wince) with a pointed stick, thrusting it back into Saeran’s hand and urging him towards the fire.

Fire isn’t  _exactly_ light. Technically its gaseous, a visible, exothermic reaction. But it tries to be light.

The fire crawls across the squished, puffed skin. It bubbles, cracks. In a few seconds, it ripples, warps, first bulging, then collapsing on itself, for a moment, a beautiful gold engulfs it, like a bloom from the inside, but then it ripples, and the surface turns to black spots.

“Ah! It’s burning, save it!!” his brother, this time, Saeran notes owlishly, and wonders why people keep grabbing his hand and waving it around, and automatically scowls and yanks his hand—and the stick with the burning marshmallow on it—but then it’s  _her_ hand on his, and she claps both her hands around it, and purses her lips, and the flame goes out.

He frowns at her, and the molten, collapsed mess of a marshmallow, but she’s grinning at him, and his marshmallow suddenly disappears.

“Hey!”

But she’s licking her fingers, even as Saeran blinks bewilderedly. She  _ate_ his marshmallow.  She giggles. “Sorry, but, I like them just this way!” Saeran’s not sure about that at all, but she doesn’t notice, “Crispy on the outside, gooey molten mush on the inside.” She sighs in contentment, and Saeran’s  _head_ hurts. It’s not a metaphor, or whatever. It’s just a stupid marshmallow.

“Whatever.” He manages, and she bows.

“I’m sorry! Here, you can have Saeyoung’s—” She snatches a skewer from his brother, who jumps in alarm, but Saeran doesn’t hesitate, and burns his mouth in the process, as Saeyoung wails in protest at the theft. (Saeran knows he doesn’t mean it. He never means anything, it’s all an act, unless it’s with her, but that’s whole different nest of complication).

The marshmallow is sweet, even where it’s been burned. Nutty-tasting. It scalds his tongue and slides down his throat when he swallows with the clinging reluctance of a slithering, slimy sea creature.

He grabs an untoasted one, and shoves it in his mouth. It’s spongy, and sweet. Not nearly as complex. It’s different. Same stuff, but it’s  _different._

His head hurts, and he shoves his palms at his temples and lets his head hang. “It’s  _not_ a damn metaphor.”

“Saeran? Are you okay?”  _Assistant Kang_ , his mind provides.  

He feels crisped, unwilling to let someone poke, or he’ll spill out, so he lowers his hands and tries to look apologetic, and normal. He finds another marshmallow, and debates, for a moment, between squishing it, eating it, and exposing it to hell. He shoves it on a skewer and holds it in the fire. “S’nothing.” He mumbles.

(He doesn’t say he’s okay.)

They work their way through the bags of marshmallows, until Yoosung is holding his stomach to keep from being sick, and Zen is talking about cleanses and vitamins, but Saeran is still thinking about metaphors. None of them turned out quite the same, no matter how many times they were replaced.

Maybe it means something, that none of them turned to ash, disappeared.

He’s annoyed with himself, and shoves the skewer, coated and sticky, into the fire, and watches as it burns. Spongey squish, to crisp-coated goo.

Alright.

So  _maybe_  it’s a metaphor.

Fuck.

It’s a pretty  _stupid_ one.

He laughs. Maybe not a really nice one, or a really good one, but he laughs – and tries to ignore the scattered looks of relief all around.

(He switches to a different snack)


	2. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> References to implied past abuse...

Everything about computers comes down to _yes_ or _no_. Something is there, or it isn’t. It’s entirely manmade, and so limited accordingly. It only takes one _no,_ and things completely stop.

The same isn’t true about humans. Humans are messy, with several senses that operate in a muddled confusion of data capture and communication. _Sight_ is vivid, sometimes false but usually first, as is _sound,_  chaotic and fervent. The most violently distorted, those two, littered with dishonesty. _Smell_ is generally harmless (he likes the smell of flowers, sickly-sweet) and _taste_ is a necessity (he can avoid _bitter,_ now, he has the choice, and quietly revels in it).

 _Touch_ is a problem.

 _Touch_ is not the numb click of keys, rustles of fabric, velvet petals. Those he controls. That isn’t really touch, it’s just existing.

 _Touch_ is angry hands, holding rope. Angry hands, holding cups of green liquid, bitter and burning. Angry hands, holding nothing at all, but moving quickly. Hands that look gentle, that don’t seem angry, folded in the lap of a white robe, but are in truth mad. A small hand, once warm, once sure, leading him to open sky before slipping free, and now that hand is far larger, and try as he might he can’t trust it _doesn’t trust it._  

She touches him without thinking, sometimes.

It freaked him out the first few times, when she smoothed his hair one morning with a giggle, when she flopped on the couch just a tad too close to make room for all three of them and her shoulders banged his and their thighs brushed. She backed off every time, but inevitably forgot again, eventually. It’s careless, natural. She puts a hand on his shoulder to balance while standing on her toes, trying to reach a can of PhD Pepper. She leans against him, fiddling on her phone while he’s reading, when he sneezes, her hand flies to his forehead to check for a fever.

It’s different than how she touches his brother.

Those touches are intentional. They linger, and cling, and are met and matched in turn. It’s interesting to watch—if weird, sometimes—and he likes that it’s different, when she touches him. He likes that she doesn’t seem to notice she does it, the careless, unconscious ease of it, that she includes him in her space like he belongs there. Likes that it sometimes means physical contact without ulterior motive or hidden intent, but just _because_. No one has ever touched him without a specific purpose–usually unpleasant–before. No one’s ever wanted to.

(Except his brother, but those feelings are still complicated.)

(She isn’t).

He thinks, maybe, if she were reaching for the can, and he wasn’t there to balance her, that she would look for him, and miss him.

His shoulders have some use, he supposes.

Her hand closes on his sleeve and he relaxes as she runs her fingers up the fabric with a delighted coo, “Ooooh Saeran this sweater’s so _soft_ , do you think it comes in my size?”

He doesn’t shrug, because it would dislodge her hand. But he rolls his head to the side somewhat, with a sigh. “I don’t know.”  

Her hand slides free to fish in her pockets for her phone, and he knows she’s probably looking it up. But she pauses, holds it up, “Smile, Saeran!”

He blinks—after the flash, luckily—and it’s not the greatest photo he’s ever taken…but it’s probably not the worst.

He just frowns at her, the usual response when he is confused, and shakes his head. _Whatever_ comes to his lips, but he purses them down, and keeps it to himself as she searches online. Instead, he lets his fingers touch the sleeves of his sweater, and considers.

It _is_ pretty soft.


	3. Romance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On one hand, I feel bad for Saeran for having to witness their lovey-doveyness ALL THE TIME. But on the other hand I think it’s probably comforting >>;; how bad can the world be if there’s someone in it who can love his brother so much?

Saeran is absolutely convinced that they are the _weirdest_ people he’s ever encountered in his entire life.

It’s not an insignificant statement.

While he has not exactly been exposed to a great deal of social interaction in his life, what little of it he has gotten has not exactly been with “normal”, emotionally balanced, and well-functioning people.

But this woman, and her fiancé are still, absolutely, the _weirdest_.

He still struggles, to call the latter by his name, a bit. It mixes up memories, ones that have been distorted, warped, and hurt. They don’t always come together right; Saeyoung, Seven, Agent 7-0-7, Luciel, a series of funhouse mirrors with scattered faces, disorienting and unfamiliar. She doesn’t seem to have any trouble with it. That’s one of the reasons why he decides she’s pretty weird. Who else would roll with it?

It’s not like he’s slinking around spying on them or anything. It’s just _there_ , to be seen. Pretty much _all_ the time.

Saeran’s just sitting on the couch when _he_ comes out in thigh-high heels and wig of tumbling black curls. She claps her hands in glee, a squeal of delight, and throws herself into a kiss—which, since his brother is wearing a coat of glitter over his red lipstick, leaves sparkling specks all over her face. They both look completely freaking ridiculous.

They both look deliriously happy.

 _At some point_ , Saeran thinks, _at some point she’ll get annoyed with him._

(He ignores the fact that the thought hurts a little bit. Most thoughts do. And it’s better to hurt a little over time than a lot because you didn’t prepare for it – right?)

Saeran’s getting a glass of water when _he’s_ at his computer, long after he promised to come to bed, and she creeps out, draping a blanket around his shoulders, and then her arms. Saeran notices he doesn’t smile.

(It’s harder to hate him, when he doesn’t smile. It makes Saeran _angry_ when he can’t hate him, even though he knows he’s not supposed to, in that weird way of emotions that show up without being bidden, and he pauses on his way back to his room, glass of water halfway to his lips, fighting back the irrational frustration with it.)

He watches, as his brother closes his eyes, and leans his head back, onto her shoulder, lips troubled, uncomfortable. He watches her soften, and her hands wrap upwards, fingers rolling into red hair, stroking as her own lips move in soft murmurs that don’t reach Saeran’s ears. He looks away at that point stalks silently back to his room where he doesn’t have to deal with it. It doesn’t make any sense to see Saeyoung look so lost. It makes even less sense how relieved he is to see the smile return, tired and tender, and a little too honest.

They look like a unit. A pair that belongs, even though Saeyoung’s suffering isn’t something that should be shared.

He doesn’t like to wonder if she suffers too.

 _At some point,_ Saeran thinks, _she’ll get tired_.

(He already is. But that’s probably because it’s the middle of the night)

Saeran’s only just woken up when she’s sitting at the kitchen counter, drooping like an abandoned kitten. In fact, she has one in her arms, though it’s a robot. She blinks owlishly at his entrance, and smiles in an absent sort of way. “Good morning.”

Saeran shrugs, then vaguely remembers how to be polite and murmurs the greeting back as he rummages for a cup. She nudges a bowl of rice and another of soup in his direction, and he accepts quietly, watching her through his bangs as he eats and she sighs, again.

“Do you think he’s wearing his seatbelt?” She asks suddenly, and he finds himself, uncomfortably, the full focus of her attention, wide, worried eyes earnest, and bites back the prickled, defensive response of _how should I know_? because she’s made him breakfast. She seems to realize his unease with her attention, and drops her gaze, arms tightening around the robot cat, huddling a bit into herself.

 _She’s so weird_ , he thinks, to worry about his brother of all people. He tries to eat his soup, but he doesn’t feel very hungry.

“I hope he’s eating alright.” Saeran snorts—fat chance of that—but regrets it when she droops further.

He watches her (it’s easier than her watching him) and realizes what she’s really saying is, _I miss him._

Like he thought, weird.

He shakes his head and pusher away the last of the soup.

 _At some point_ , Saeran thinks, _she’s going to get hurt_.

(That scares him, he realizes, startled. The soup feels heavy in his stomach.)

To his annoyance, it’s gotten to be a _habit_. Watching them. The way they circle, orbit. The way his hands pause over the keys to chase hers, and tangle. The way hers had already begun moving, anticipating it, like there’s gravity there. Which _isn’t how gravity works._

He watches them with wariness, at first. He’s sure she’ll get annoyed, get tired, get hurt, and when she does, she’ll get upset, she’ll go _mad_. He’s sure the other half will leave, abandon them both, and leave Saeran to her obsession. _It’s too much_ , he thinks, when they’re all over one another, when they forget he’s there. Of course it is – that’s how love works, it consumes you, like an explosion. _It’s not enough_ , he thinks, when she has tears in her eyes, voice sharp and words barbed. Of course it isn’t – how can he love her back when he’s only half of a whole, and the other half is withered and weak? His shoulders tense, panic turns his nerves to hot snakes under his skin, jumping, twisting, when he watches them. Too much. Not enough. Hurt, annoyed, tired, _mad_.

But then she stops kissing him, and laughs, and apologies to Saeran for the show, dragging his brother off to a room for privacy, and his nerves relax, a little. Maybe they aren’t _completely_ obsessed, if they still notice the rest of the world.

And then instead of storming off at her sharp words, his brother throws his hands up in exasperation, and asks for her to let him think, and she does, and they compromise, and laugh in watery relief. Maybe they aren’t hurting one another, if they can stop themselves, and smile.

Wariness changes.

At some point, he watches them like they’re water. Like they’re vital, cool relief, and harmless. Necessary, even.

His nerves don’t jump when she kisses his brother’s temple, when he nuzzles her neck and tugs her hair – ridiculously – up into little knots that look like cat ears. When their hands tangle and shoulders touch. When his makeup smears on her cheek and her fingers dance around the edges his glasses, and steal them for her own face, when she shrieks in dismay as he catches her and they swing around the room, when his expression is lost and her soft voice doesn’t ease it as much as Saeran would want. When they argue, when they talk, when they have nothing to do with one another at all until one small moment when they share the same space, and the gravity catches their hands until they pass back on to their other tasks.

They’re the weirdest people he knows. Her for liking him. Him for…a lot of reasons. At least one of them involving thigh high heels and glitter.

“Do you think he’s wearing a seatbelt?”

Another day, and she’s drooping again, poking at her rice.

Saeran takes her bowl – if she’s not going to eat it, he will – “Probably not.” He answers firmly, and reaches for the vegetables next. “He’s an idiot.”

She groans, burying her head against the cat, but then she lifts it, grinning. “ _Ugh_ you’re right. Dang it.” She steals her bowl of rice back. It’s a weird, kind of dopey smile, Saeran thinks. Way too fond, considering its subject. She smiles around a mouthful of rice, and pats the head of the (weird) little robot. There’s something mischievous in it, and a little vicious. “I should tell him I’ll give Jumin the keys if he won’t wear it. _Jumin_ would wear the seatbelt.”

 _Yeah_ , Saeran thinks _,_ remembering what he saw in the chatrooms, back before he was officially, well, invited to do so. _And he’ll need it._ The twisted hunks of metal and wheels. He almost feels sorry for the car, for the fate she’s threatening to doom it to.

Saeran scarfs down another bite, as the alarm system announces an arrival with obnoxious accolades, and the door swings open. She’s already moving, and sweatshirt-clad arms are opening to catch her.

“Hey—Were you wearing a seatbelt?”

“Ah—well,”

Saeran shakes his head, and goes back to his breakfast, slurping his soup with satisfaction.

_They’re so weird._

 


End file.
